From Sunhame to Haven
by ElfWarrior
Summary: A Companion races to Karse to save his Chosen...a Karsite commander has second thoughts about her position...two children are taken for Vkandis...and I suck at summaries, so just read it please. And REVIEW.
1. The Feast of the Children

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters mentioned in any books by Mercedes Lackey. Duh.

Note: This story takes place sometime during the first two Mage Winds books, before the alliance with Karse and before Solaris took her place as Son of the Sun, and the very first part of this story (the Companion bit) takes place a little before the rest.

Marion struggled to contain her mental laughter at the sight of the two prancing stallions, trying their best to make themselves look good in front of her. Alshir and Daeor, two of the most charming Companions around, and certainly the most entertaining of those who hadn't Chosen yet, were both thoroughly taken with her. Unfortunately, Marion couldn't pick between the two.

Alshir leaned his head closer to Daeor, who gave a kick of his heels and trotted forward a few paces. Alshir came level, and they both tore off, racing for the Grove.

Marion watched the race with interest. They were neck and neck, then Daeor began to pull ahead...

He stopped suddenly, almost sitting on his hind legs as he pulled up. Whinnying furiously, he spun on his heels and ran for the stables.

_:Daeor, what are you doing?: Marion asked._

_:Where are you going?: Alshir added._

_:They're going to burn her!: he cried frantically._

_:What?: the other two chorused._

_:My Chosen! They're  going to burn her, oh, gods!: He leapt the low fence easily. __:They're hurting her and they're going to burn her!:_

_:Daeor, are you sure—: Alshir began._

_:Hell I am!:  the Companion snarled. __:I have to go to her! They're going to kill her!:_

_:Who is?: Marion asked, trying to make him calm down._

_:The Karsites!: Daeor screamed for the stableboy._

One stuck his head out, cursed, and hurried back inside for Daeor's tack. Daeor neighed again, dancing in place. The boy ran out again, weighed down by saddle, barding, and bridle. _:Hurry!: Daeor told him frantically._

The boy's jaw dropped, and he almost let Daeor's tack fall to the ground.

_:Daeor, is that really necessary?: Marion asked. Daeor ignored her._

_:Don't bother with the barding,: he told the boy. __:Just hurry.:_

"Ranan!" the boy yelled. "C'n I 'ave some help, please?" He set the saddle on Daeor's back and began bucking straps.

Another, older boy ran out of the stables. "You can saddle a Companion yourself, Jack."

"He has to leave _now. Leave the barding, and hurry!"_

"How do you—"

"He told me!"

Ranan swore reverently and picked up the bridle.

Less than five minutes later, Daeor raced off, tail streaming, with only a hasty, _:Thank you!: to mark his passing._

Ralca had fought long and hard to gain the position she now held, and she wasn't about to give it up.

No matter what.

She had been the only woman in all her classes, and she had excelled, but because of her gender, her success had been overlooked. Her lone female teacher had explained, quite bluntly, that the only way for a woman to over get anywhere in the Karsite army would be to sleep her way to the top. Ralca hadn't punched the teacher, but it had been a close thing. That day, she had decided that she would prove the teacher wrong, whatever it took. And now, here she was, an officer of decent standing with a sparkling future ahead of her.

But now came the time of year she hated most, and tried to be far away from any form of civilization at: the Feast of the Children, where each child was brought to the temple of Vkandis so the priests could choose those with the powers to serve the Sunlord, or those heretics with witch-powers.

The treatment of these children was inhumane. Ralca couldn't ignore it. She tried not to think about it, but this year she had been appointed to head the children's guard from Arshal to the Children's Cloister, where they were kept until they completed their training or were burned for harboring witch-powers. All those children, all of them bound to be given to some terrible fate...

Ralca's stomach turned, and she gave herself a little shake. Her mount tossed his head in response to her movement. Ralca quieted him automatically.

"What are you thinking about?" Jarin, her partner and lover, asked as he rode up next to her.

"Nothing." Ralca grinned crookedly at him. "I'm fine."

"Good. Come on, Ralca, don't look so gloomy. It'll be fine. I'm sure you'll make a wonderful impression on everyone."

"That's not what I'm worried about." Ralca's dark eyes grew serious, and she looked away. "Let's go. We have to reach Arshal today."

She clicked to her mount and they headed onwards.

"Allrana! Allrana!"

Ali looked up from her game of marbles. "Drat," she muttered. "I was winning too."

Kashil, her best friend, grinned at her. "Don't worry about it, Ali. We can finish this afternoon."

"No," Raldon corrected. "The Feast is this afternoon. We all have to go to the Temple."

Ali sighed. "Two more years, then I'll be thirteen and I won't have to go anymore."

"One and a half," Kashil, ever exact, put in.

"Doesn't count," Raldon protested. "You've got two more Feasts. I've only got this one."

"Allrana!"

Ali stood and dusted her skirts off. "See you at the Feast!"

"Bye, Ali!" The boys went back to the game.

Ali ran up to her mother, breathing hard. "Yes, Mother?"

"Where have you been? Playing marbles with those boys, I'll bet?"

"Well..."

Ali's mother sighed. "Suppose it can't be helped. Go get your nice dress on."

"So early?"

"Allrana, the Feast starts in little over a candlemark. Go get dressed."

"Yes, Mother." Ali ran upstairs. Why was her mother so worried? Mother always fretted whenever the Feast came around, perhaps because two of her older siblings and one of her younger ones had been taken, and one of them had burned. Father hadn't lost any family, but he shard his wife's anxiety. Ali didn't understand it. She'd been passed over six times—she was turning twelve in four months—so why should they take her now? It was all silly. She wasn't worried. Kashil and Raldon would be fine also. Everyone would. They always were.

She pulled on her slightly uncomfortable dress and snuck past her mother back to Kashil and Raldon. They had finished the game. "Who won?" she asked.

"He did," Kashil groaned. "Again."

Ali tried to think of something to take their mind off marbles, but before she said anything, they all heard the sound of trumpets blowing in the distance. "The guard is here!" Kashil cried joyfully.

They ran to the main streets to watch the procession. An armed squadron, headed by a man and woman on tall brown horses, trotted down the streets. "Wow," Kashil murmured.

"I want to do that someday," Ali announced.

"What?" Raldon said incredulously. "Prance around like that? You're a girl."

"I broke your nose once, Raldon, and I'll do it again if you don't shut up." Ali watched the female commander. "_She's a girl, and she's of equal rank to the man."_

"Whatever."

The woman turned and looked at them. They all stared, awestruck, as she smiled, dipped her head, and moved on.

What they didn't see was the smile fade as soon as she'd passed them by, and an expression of sorrow take its place.

Ali stood patiently in line, waiting. Raldon was four or five people behind her, and Kashil was ten or so ahead of her. She watched the woman commander as she waited. She stood impassively, flanking the priest. Every now and then her partner would lean over and say something to her, or vice versa. She could see that the scabbards of their swords were scratched and marked with years of hard use—these were people who knew what they were doing, and did it well.

The woman looked straight at her for the second time that day. Ali did her best to appear brave and stare back. The woman gave a one-sided smile and winked at her, then looked forward as if nothing had happened.

Ali smiled and tapped her foot. She wished they would hurry up—

She gasped. The priest was walking swiftly towards someone in line. That meant that someone would be taken. She saw the woman commander take a deep breath, as if steeling herself, then fallow.

Kashil was whispering to the person in front of him when a hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. He looked up and choked.

"Take this one," the priest told one of his guards—the man.

Kashil tried to shrink away, but the guard took his arms and dragged him off.

The villagers watched in stunned disbelief. Kashil...taken?

Ali felt tears come to her eyes. Not Kashil. Oh, no...

"And this one," said the priest.

Ali looked up to see who it was. Before she could clear her eyes of tears, she felt strong hands grab her upper arms and pull her away. What—

"No!" she cried, digging her heels in. The woman kept pulling her. "No, no, let me go!"

"Allrana!" her mother called.

"Ali!" Kashil screamed.

Ali lashed back, kicking the guard's shins, but the woman was wearing armor, and all she did was hurt her foot. "Please, please let me go!"

"Silence her!" the priest snapped.

The guard brought the pommel of her sword down on Ali's head, and the girl knew no more.

Wow, I have defeated the evil demon of writer's block and written this much! Now if only I could work on all my _other stories too...Write me reviews and tell me what you think! Now I'm going to work on chapter two...and I challenge you to guess what will happen, and tell me what it is._


	2. Escape

Disclaimer: Go read chapter 1. It'll keep applying.

When Ali woke up, she had a throbbing headache. She was in a dark wagon. At first she though she was alone, but then she heard Kashil's voice. "Ali? Are you awake?"

"Yes." She dragged herself upright. "My head hurts."

"I'm not surprised. that guard really whacked you one."

"What happened?"

"They dragged us into the Temple, and then a little while later, they brought us into this wagon. They're taking us to the Children's Cloister."

"I _knew that." Ali's headache and her fear made her short with her friend. "And we'll be trained until we become novices or until they say we have witch-powers and then they'll burn us."_

"Vkandis have mercy..."

"His priests got us into this," Ali said sullenly.

"Don't be blasphemous!" Kashil fretted. "Not with the Sunpriests so near!"

"I don't care! My head hurts and I want to go home!"

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," a harsh female voice told them.

Both children snapped their heads around as a ray of light shot into the dark interior of the wagon with the opening of the back curtain. The woman commander crawled inside. "This is for you, girl." She held out a cup to Ali.

She eyed it, and its holder, suspiciously. The woman wasn't as old as she'd first thought, in her mid to late twenties, with wisps of dark hair escaping from under her helmet and sharp, almost hawk-like features. She smiled at Ali. "It's for the headache I'm guessing you have."

Ali cautiously took the cup and drank. It tasted foul, but her head felt better almost instantly. "Thank you."

"I'm Ralca. Who are you?"

Ali hesitated, than said, "Ali. That's my friend Kashil."

Ralca opened her mouth, as if to say more, but a call from outside cut her off. "Ralca! What are you doing in there?"

"Giving the girl something for her head! I'm coming, Jarin!" With a last glance over her shoulder, she ducked under the curtain and back into the sunlight.

"She seems nice," Kashil began.

"She hit me over the head, she dragged me in here, she's helping bring us to the Children's Cloister, and you say she's _nice?" Ali asked incredulously._

"I just meant—"

Ali sighed. "I'm sorry, Kashil. I'm just homesick, and I'm never going to see my family again."

Ralca hopped back onto her horse. "What was all that about?" Jarin asked.

"I just gave her something for her headache! I was responsible for it, so I felt I owed it to her," she snapped.

Jarin raised his hands to stave off her verbal attack. "Sorry! I just didn't want her thinking you'd help them escape or anything! That's always the first thought they have, you know."

"No, I don't know, and I don't want to."

"Ralca, Ralca, my love, lighten up!" Jarin smiled charmingly. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing, Jarin. Really." Ralca knew the lie for what it was even as she spoke it. There was a lot bothering her, and none of it was going to be solved easily.

Ralca brought Ali and Kashil their dinner that night, and breakfast the next morning. Kashil asked how long they would be traveling like this, and Ralca told them that it was another five days' journey to the Cloister. "A lot can happen in five days," Ali told her friend when Ralca had left.

"Not to us," he replied sadly. "I want to go home, Ali. I miss my mother and my father and even all my annoying brothers and sisters."

Ali nodded. "Me too. I never knew I liked any of _my sisters so much."_

Ralca brought them food for the next four days. Both children were terrified at the thought of actually entering the Cloister on the morrow. The next morning, just after breakfast, Ali turned to Kashil and whispered, "Let's run away."

"Run away? How?"

She thought for a minute. "We break at noon today, right? Like we always do? And they let us out to relieve ourselves, and eat. We'll just run."

"Are you sure."

_No, Ali thought. "Yes," she said._

They followed Ali's plan, waiting until the wagon stopped. Ali looked at Kashil. "Ready?"

"No. Let's go."

Ralca opened the wagon door, and they both bolted.

The warrior was thrown down as they banged the door open the rest of the way. They tore across the camp, leaving soldiers flailing behind. Some set up the alarm.

Ali dodged a big soldier's grasp but fell into another's. She kicked, bit, and scratched frantically, but to no avail. "Run, Kashil!" she told him.

The boy had made it out of the camp and was racing for the woods. An archer next to Ali and her captor lifted his bow and fired at Kashil's back. "No!" Ali cried, throwing out her hand.

The arrow appeared in her hand. Ali gasped. The man dropped her. "Heretic!" he shouted, reaching for his sword.

Ali threw the arrow at him, but her witch-powers reached him first. She Fetched his sword away, into her hand, and threw him to the ground with her mind. She got to her feet, trying to follow Kashil.

A Sunpriest, the only one riding with the party, ran up before her. "Back, witch!" he shouted. Ali felt a barrier fall across her mind, blocking her power. The priest struck her across the face. She fell back into the first soldier's arms.

The last thing she saw before he slammed his fist into her skull, rendering her unconscious, was Ralca, running towards them.

Ralca stared into the fire, resting her chin in her hands. Jarin walked up and sat next to her. "Worried about the boy that escaped? Don't worry, we'll find him."

"No, I'm worried about the girl who didn't. They're going to burn her, you know. They're going to kill her slowly."

"She's a heretic," Jarin pointed out. "What do you think they should do to her? I think you got a little attached to her. It's not like you to let something get in the way of a job, Ralca. Are you sure everything's fine?"

"No, it's not. They're going to kill her."

"Ralca, if you intervene, they'll kill _you. Stop worrying about the little witch. It'll be the death of you, and I don't want you dead. Really, I don't. Do you know how hard it is for me to actually find a woman who likes me?"_

"Yes, I do. Believe me, I do." Ralca grinned at him. "Lucky for you I'm crazy."

Ali felt awful when she woke up, even worse than when she'd awoken in the wagon with Kashil. Her head hurt, and she had bruises all over her body. They must have beaten her before locking her up in here...wherever "here" was.

She sat painfully up and looked around. She was in a small cell, with old straw in one corner and a grate in the solid wood door. Other than that, the damp stone was completely bare. Ali got to her feet and began to pace—there was nothing else to do. One, two, three, four, five and turn, one, two, three, four, five and turn, one, two, three...

The seconds became minutes, and the minutes became an entire candlemark before something finally happened. A hunk of stale bread and a shallow bowl of water were thrust through the grate. Ali ate the bread and drank the water, then curled up on the straw and cried herself to sleep. Her powers were still locked down, and she couldn't rescue herself, and no one was going to come for her.

She spent the next day in prison before they dragged her out. Ignoring her frantic questions, they took her to a Sunpriest and told her to confess. Ali didn't know what to say. "I didn't do anything," she protested.

A guard slapped her across the face. "Liar! You have powers, witch! You can confess that now and die with a clean conscience, or we can burn you now."

Tears came to Ali's eyes, and not just from the pain in her stinging cheek. "But I didn't do anything!" she wailed.

"Take her away," said the priest. "Burn her. Call the children at the Cloister to witness it, and call all the soldiers who guarded the wagon her friend escaped from."

Ali began to cry, and the guards took her back to her cell. Half a candlemark later, they came back for her and dragged her to the burning post. Crying hysterically, Ali tried to fight, tried to get away. The held her tighter and tied her to the post.

Ali heard a warcry screamed suddenly. She looked up, and through her tears, she saw Ralca. The woman had drawn her sword and was fighting her way to the burning post, kicking and slashing furiously. She sliced the ropes at Ali's side and shoved her away. "Go!" she shouted at her. "Get out of here!"

The people pressed her, grabbing at her arms. A priest slashed at Ralca and got in the way of her blade as she parried. He fell wounded to the ground, and Ali felt the wall in her mind disappear.

She Fetched herself.

She didn't know it could be done until she did it, but one instant she was pulling away from hands and the next she was away from the crowd, looking back at them. "Run!" she heard Ralca yell again, and then a cry of pain as a sword tore her side.

Ali turned to obey, and gasped as a white horse ran seemingly out of nowhere. _A Hellhorse from Valdemar! her mind cried._

She tried to dodge around it, but it blocked her path. _:Run away!: a voice said in her head. __:Run, Ali!:_

Ralca screamed as the sword sliced her side, then again as an arrow struck her hip. She saw Ali running away, saw the Hellhorse run up. she fell to her knees, blood flowing freely from her wounds. "Run, Ali," she murmured. "Ride away on your horse, and get away from here."

She brought her sword up to block an overhand strike at her head, dodged another, and landed face down on the ground, snapping the arrow shaft and driving the tip deeper into her body. Someone kicked her hard. Blows began to rain in from all sides as her sword fell from her nerveless grip.

"Run, Ali," she whispered again, and darkness took her.

The last thing she heard was the sound of harness bells.

No, the story isn't done yet! And not every chapter will end with someone getting knocked out, this was a coincidence. REVIEW.


	3. The Fire

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

For you people who read the first two chapters before 5/7/02, I added a little to chapter 2, so things might not make sense unless you go back and look at the changes.

Note: Herald Neave's Companion Kyldathar actually is mentioned on page 271, paperback English DAW edition, of _Arrows of the Queen. Neave himself is mentioned in that chapter, and in one paragraph on page 305 of __Winds of Change. Yes, I am obsessed with the Valdemar books, all 21 of them (22 if you count __The Valdemar Companion, but since I'm 4/7 holds on that at the library, I can't say I'm obsessed with it yet)! I'm fond of the little mentioned characters that have a sentence dedicated to them later, like Neave. He's always been one of my favorite two-second-bit characters._

Ralca woke up in a prison cell. She groaned. _I wasn't supposed to survive that, she protested mentally. __I was supposed to die..._

Every part of her hurt. She wished Jarin was there with her. Not to die, of course, but for comfort. She hoped Ali had escaped.

She couldn't stay awake long; the pain was too much. She drifted back into oblivion still denying her survival.

When she woke up again, her wounds were bandaged neatly but not with overt care. Soon after, a pair of guards came and took her to her trial. It was ridiculous from the start. She was accused of aiding and abetting a heretic, of being a heretic herself, and the murders of all those she had killed when rescuing Ali. She was not allowed to speak in her own defense, nor was she allowed anything else. The trial was conducted by the Sunpriests themselves, still angry at the wounding of one of their own. Less than a candlemark later, it was over. Ralca would be burned the next day, at the same place Ali had been scheduled to be executed at. She was taken back to her cell and left there without food or water.

The next morning, she lay on her pile of straw until they came to take her. They set her on an old horse (bareback), tied her hands behind her back, and led her through the shouting, jeering crowd of the city to the burning post. She searched for Jarin, and found him. There was no trace of sorrow or pity in his iron eyes, only scorn, disdain, and disgust. His eyes met hers, and his face twisted into a scowl. He spit at her, and looked away.

It was more than Ralca could bear. Tears welled up in her eyes. For a second she wanted to be burned, wanted to die. The next she was angry. She blinked the tears away and looked around for a possible escape.

An abandoned but still sturdy shack-like "house" wasn't far off. Ralca kicked a guard's face with her right foot and swung the other one over the horse's neck, dropping to the ground. She fought her way through the crowd, elbowing and kicking. She collapsed against the door and slammed it shut behind her.

What luck! A knife and the board for the door were within easy reach! She sliced the ropes on her wrists and barred the door. Now, to find her way out. There was a door in the back that she could run out.

Her nose twitched, and she sneezed. A smell like smoke reached her nostrils—

Smoke. Her eyes widened, and her insides twisted with fear. They had set fire to the house.

She ran to the door, but they had reached it first. It was locked. There were no windows. The front wall was beginning to smolder. Someone threw oil on it outside, and it roared up.

Ralca began to panic. There was no way out. The fire was spreading. They had lit another fire at the other wall. She was on her knees now, trying to breathe. She heard the beams creaking, and knew that the roof would soon collapse.

_Vkandis save me..._

She crawled towards the only part of the house that wasn't encased in flames, coughing fiercely. The other section collapsed in a thunder of sparks. Ralca, squeezed against the wall, was still alive, but her left arm was caught under a burning beam. The fire ate through her clothes and began to lick across her skin. She screamed and thrust it away.

The roof was leaning against the floor, and the fire was flickering across it. Clutching her arm, Ralca tried to find a way through, but it was no use.

She heard cries of fear from outside, but they didn't compute in her fear-numbed brain. The fire crept towards her across the floor.

Silver hooves kicked through the slanted roof, opening a hole of freedom. Ralca looked up in shock, into a pair of stunningly blue eyes, and forgot about the fire as she fell into them.

_:I am Daeor, and I Choose you, Ralca. I will never leave you.:_

Another burning beam fell to the ground beside them. Daeor hopped away. _:And now, we have to get out of here. Ride!:_

Ralca pulled herself into the saddle. The smoke was more plentiful here, but Daeor ran back through the hole he'd made into the open air. The crowd fell away from them in fear. Soldiers moved to stop them, but Daeor ran them down, dodging between the spears. Ralca felt her side wound reopen, and an arrow strike her shoulder.

Daeor finally made it out of Sunhame, and raced down the road at a pace no horse could hope to match.

When they had run for what Daeor judged long enough, he slowed and halted. Ralca nearly slid out of the saddle with weariness. _:Strap yourself in,: Daeor advised._

Ralca looked, and found a multitude of straps and buckles for just that purpose. She fixed herself in, still not thinking about what had happened. When she was secure and Daeor kept walking, she spoke. "You're a Hellhorse, aren't you?"

_:No. I am a Companion.:_

"A Hellhorse," Ralca insisted. "From Valdemar."

_:We're not Hellhorses,: Daeor explained patiently. __:We're Companions.:_

"Does this make me—"

_:A White Rider? Yes. A Herald.:_

"Oh, sweet Sun Lord..." Ralca swayed in the saddle again. "But I don't have magic! They tested me, and—"

_:They missed it. Your power is so small that they overlooked it.:_

"You mean I have witch-powers?"

_:Mind-magic. Yes. You have a small Gift of Mindspeech, but that's all.:_

"Then why the hell did you Choose me?" she wailed.

_:I couldn't have Chosen any other,: he replied simply. __:You are my Chosen, and that's the end of it.:_

Ralca's burned arm was throbbing painfully. She felt tears sneaking up in the back of her eyes. "This can't be happening to me." Everything hit her at once. She was going to be a Demonrider, Jarin hated her, Ali was Vkandis-knew-where, she had survived a fire, she _hurt all over..._

_:Chosen, am I so evil?: Daeor asked._

"No!" Ralca replied immediately, angrily. "Never you!"

:I am no different from any other Companion. We aren't evil, I assure you. believe me, Ralca, if no one else.:

Ralca rubbed her eyes. "I suppose I have to believe you. I—I couldn't _not believe you. You're my Companion, and...I am what I am, and that's a De—Herald."_

:And you wonder why I Chose you?:

"I think I'm going to faint."

And she did.

Not much longer, then we can turn around and go home.

_:I hope you're right, Chosen,: Kyldathar grumbled. __:I'm sick of "roughing it" and I want to get back to Haven,:_

Herald Neave grinned and ruffled his Companion's mane. "There's a Waystation near here, I think. We should be able to sleep comfortably tonight."

:Thank the gods.:

True to his word, they found a Waystation just as night was falling. Neave took care of Kyldathar and went to make himself some dinner.

The Waystation was one of the better ones, to his delight: well-stocked, with two rooms, each with its own bed, and an iron stove for cooking. Neave was raiding the cupboards when Kyldathar Mindspoke him. _:Neave, Daeor's coming.:_

Neave frowned. _:Daeor? Isn't he one of the stallions who hasn't Chosen yet?:_

_:Not anymore. He's got his Chosen, and she's badly hurt. He needs help, he says. They've been riding like hell for the last few days, and she's barely been awake enough to eat.:_

_:Where did he get her?:_

_:Karse.:_

_:Karse?! The crazy idiot!:_

Neave got a sense of agreement. _:Yes, he is that, apparently. But he's coming here, and I'm afraid you'll have to help take care of a wounded Karsite Herald.:_

"A Karsite Herald," Neave muttered, shaking his head. Well, at least there were two beds in this Waystation. "At least she'll have company, unlike Alberich."

He stuck his head out the door and looked south. As Kyldathar had said, Daeor was pounding up the road. He came to a halt in front of Neave.

The fiery-haired Herald raised his eyebrows and shook his head. The woman slumped across Daeor's back did _not look well. Neave set about unbuckling the straps that held her in place. He caught her as she fell and carried her inside, laying her carefully on the bed. "Companion Daeor?" he asked. "Shall I tend you or your Chosen first?" The question was joking, but vital._

:I'll last. I'm not sure if she will.:

Neave heard Daeor's underlying panic, and held up the woman's badly burned left arm. She groaned in her sleep.

"The burn's infected," he told the Companion, who had walked inside and was standing behind him. "What happened, anyway? And what's her name?"

Daeor explained everything as Neave set about cleaning and bandaging all of Ralca's injuries. "She really been through a lot," he murmured as they both finished.

_:And coming from you, that really means something,: the Companion said softly._

Neave shrugged and turned away. "The stable is over here." He hoped Daeor would take the hint and change the subject.

He followed Neave out docilely, saying no more. Neave was very grateful for the respite, and even more so that he wouldn't be pressed about his past.


	4. Nightmares, Grounding, and Centering

Disclaimer: On chapter 1.

Ralca slept through the night. When Neave tried to wake her up in the morning, she started screaming at him in Karsite and hit him with her burnt arm, which made her collapse back, moaning in pain. Daeor was getting more and more worried about her. He was starting to clamor in Neave's, fretting about Ralca, until Neave finally asked Kyldathar to take care of him. The voice in his mind faded, and he finally got some peace.

Ralca woke up, finally, just after Neave had finished dinner. He was outside, reading a battered book he'd brought along with him from Haven (technically not allowed, but a common practice), when he heard Daeor cry happily, _:She's awake! She's awake!:_

He snapped the book shut and hurried in. Ralca was sitting up in bed, leaning on her uninjured arm and cradling her left to her chest. She whipped her head around to look at him, and paled visibly.

Well, an entire life's teaching wasn't banished in a day, as Neave knew well from painful experience. He was a Herald—a White Demonrider to the Karsites. Though Ralca herself would soon be one, she had every right to be afraid. Neave didn't know what to say to her, but she solved that problem for him. In slightly accented Valdemaran, she asked, "Who are you?"

"Neave," he replied automatically, surprised at seeing her awake, despite Daeor's warning.

"A D—Herald, you are?"

Definitely a Karsite. Alberich used the same sentence patterns. It drove some of his students crazy, but Neave rather liked it, except for the fact that sometimes it got so hypnotizing to listen to that he started using the same accent. The slight hesitation over the word "Herald" also betrayed her heritage. "Yes. Your Daeor ran in here with you yesterday. I imagine by now you'll be starving?"

She frowned. "Can you say that again, slower?" Neave repeated himself, and she nodded. "Yes, very. Have you any food?"

"Lots."

He could feel her watching him as he ladled some of the still-warm stew he'd made for dinner into a bowl. He didn't like it when people watched him like that, usually, but he didn't mind as much now. That didn't make any sense at all. Neave was slow to trust anyone, one of the many aftereffects of his horrific childhood, but he was already comfortable with Ralca. He shook his head, as if to banish such confusing thoughts, and passed Ralca the bowl.

"Thank you," she said shortly, and attacked the food.

Neave leaned back in his chair and watched her, smiling slightly. She must _really have been starved, to enjoy his cooking so much. Her face was classically Karsite: sharp-featured, tanned copper, and hawk-like, with piercing black eyes and framed by thick black hair. Hers was cropped short about her ears. Even wounded, starved, and bedridden, she held herself like a warrior, and Neave had no doubt she would be a formidable one. "Daeor told me what happened," he said as she finished eating. "Would you like seconds?"_

"Please." She held the bowl out. He took it, refilled it, and passed it back. "Glad am I that he did. I shall not have to relive it in the telling."

Neave recognized the hint for what it was, and changed the subject. "Know you what Gifts you have?" Damn, there he went again! She'd think he was mimicking her accent, making fun of her.

To his relief, she didn't appear to notice. "A small Gift of Mindspeech, but nothing else, says Daeor. What Gifts have you?"

"A sort of Mindspeech, very strong. I project."

"Project what?"

"I just—project. Emotions, experiences, words, images, you name it. I've even accidentally projected my own dreams, when I was first learning. I can receive things too, but my projection is five times better, at least." He thought for a moment. "If your Gift is so minor, we could probably start training it whenever you felt ready—the sooner the better."

A look of distaste crossed her face. "Must I? Overlooked by the Sunpriests, my Gift was, for it is so weak."

"Sometimes the weakest Gifts can be the most dangerous," Neave told her, quoting one of his first teachers, Herald Ylsa. Ylsa was dead now, had been for years. "To their wielder, if not the enemy, for they can be overlooked as inconsequential and explode at inconvenient times." He smiled wryly. "Not that any time is good for a Gift to explode on you."

She shuddered. "No. Very well, you may begin to teach me the use of this Gift tomorrow." She passed him the empty bowl. "And now, weary am I, once more. I must beg your leave, Herald, and sleep again."

Neave raised his eyebrows. She trusted him enough to sleep—already? Well, she had been asleep for the last day, and he hadn't killed her or hurt her in any way. _Not that I would, let alone could... "Good night, then." He walked across the room towards his own. "And I'm Neave—just Neave—to my friends."_

"Am I your friend?"

"You can be."

The dream-memory...

_He walked through the taproom, under the smoke. He was ten again, and filled with terror as he slipped past the half-crazy, half-conscious drunks that frequented the tavern, serving them cheap wine._

_A man woke from his daze and grabbed his arm so tightly it hurt. "Come here, little boy, pretty boy," he crooned. Neave tried to pull away, but he was too weak, just a child, and helpless to defend himself. "I only want to give you something..."_

Neave pulled himself up from the grip of the nightmare/memory, drenched in sweat and breathing in horse gasps. "Kyldathar..."

:I am here, Chosen.:

Neave half-fell out of bed and ran through Ralca's room, then outside, to the stables. He slammed into the door and shut himself in Kyldathar's stall, huddled against his Companion's side.

It was ridiculous. Neave, a full Herald and capable adult, was still haunted by something that had happened over fifteen years ago.

:It's not ridiculous, Chosen. Not after everything that happened to you.:

:I know. It just feels that way. I've healed, but I don't know if I'll ever be fully healed. Not while I keep having that dream. I haven't had it for years, not since...I don't know. I think the last time was when Ancar had Talia. Why am I having it again now?:

Kyldathar had no answer. Neave stayed there the rest of the night.

Ralca was awake and standing when Neave came back into the Waystation the next morning—in fact, she was cooking breakfast one-handed. She'd made a sling for her bandaged arm. _Guess my cooking did make an impression on her, Neave thought. __Hope she's a better chef than me._

She glanced up when he walked in, giving him an odd look. He could expect no less: he had straw in his incredibly messy hair, he was wearing only a tattered pair of old breeches, and he probably looked like hell. He didn't really care.

He walked past her into his room, pulled on a clean set of Whites, and came back out again, combing the straw out of his hair. Ralca plunked a bowl of porridge in front of him. "When can you start teaching me?" she asked as they sat.

"After breakfast," he replied shortly. The tone of his voice cut off any further conversation. Ralca shrugged and turned her attention to her food.

"Ground and center!"

Ralca pulled herself inwards. She was almost stable, when a mental shove from Neave's powerful Gift knocked her over. At least he'd had the courtesy to shove her from the left side, so instead of falling onto her sore, burned arm, she fell onto her sore, half-healed hip. She hissed in pain and dragged herself up with the single-minded determination that had seen her through so much before.

"Ground and center!"

This time she pulled herself in properly. She felt Neave push her, then shove her as hard as he could. She swayed a bit, but held tight to what she had.

"Good. Very good. Do it again."

Ralca pulled herself out, and waited for Neave to signal her.

"Ground and center!"

Faster than she had before, Ralca grounded and centered. This time Neave couldn't even budge her.

Neave smiled—the first smile she'd seen from him today. "You've got it." The smile faded. "And now you have to make it reflex."

"Make it—"

"Ground and center!"

Ralca centered herself, and was half-grounded when Neave shoved her.

Hard.

She rolled to the side, yelping as she banged down hard enough to bruise on the arrow wound. "I wasn't there—" she started to protest.

Neave cut her off. "That's the point. You've got it when you have a million years to get ready, and now you have to be able to do it in less than a second. Let's keep at it. Ground and center!"

It went on all day. They broke for lunch, and by evening, Ralca could ground and center in a fraction of a second, and hold herself against Neave's strongest mental shoves.

 She was also so tired it was a wonder she was still on her feet. Neave felt the same way, she could tell. It gave her a bit of guilty comfort. "Tomorrow, I'll teach you how to build your shields," Neave announced once they had eaten dinner. Neither of them had spoken throughout the meal.

Ralca groaned. "There is more?"

"Much more."

She sighed. "Then it's to bed I am going—_now—if without falling I can walk over there."_

He laughed tiredly. "Good idea, ."

They stumbled off to sleep.


	5. The Dream-Memory

Disclaimer: On chapter 1.

She was terrified, and she didn't know why at first. She was so afraid she couldn't think, and then, through the fear, she saw a picture. She was a child again, about ten, and she was walking through a dirty, smoky taproom, dodging drunken bodies and serving wine.

Someone snatched her arm in a grip that hurt. She tried to struggle away, but couldn't free herself. "Come here, little boy, pretty boy," he said. "I only want to give you something..."

It ended suddenly, and she was in darkness, and only the fear remained. She tried to scream, but no sound came out.

"Ralca! Ralca, wake up!"

She did, with a shriek and a punch that caught Neave in the shoulder. He fell to the ground, as she had so many times that day. "Ow!"

"What happened? What—what—" In her haste and fear, Ralca forgot herself and began babbling in Karsite. She calmed down enough to repeat her questions in Valdemaran as Neave, rubbing his shoulder, sat at the foot of the bed.

"I told you I projected," Neave told her. "That was my dream-memory you were experiencing."

"That was—what?"

"My dream. My memory. After lessons today, I was so tired I forgot to rebuild my shields, and you didn't have any, and I projected my nightmare into your dreams. The same thing happened when I first arrived at the Collegium. I won't let it leak through again. I'm sorry."

"Sor—wha—that was a memory?" Ralca stuttered.

Neave shrugged and looked away. "It was a long time ago."

"Matter that does not. A memory…" She shuddered. "Something I could say I wish there was, but nothing there is."

Neave didn't reply for a long moment. "I don't usually have that dream anymore," he said finally. "Some times are worse than others."

"How do you mean?"

"Last night I slept in the stable with Kyldathar. It was the first time I'd had it in…I don't know; a long time. Tonight, as soon as I woke up, I knew you were picking it up also, and it kept me from collapsing in terror."

"Glad am I that it served a purpose," Ralca muttered dryly. "I need help not when it comes to having nightmares."

He looked sharply at her. "You don't?"

She gave a hollow parody of a laugh. "I rejected my country, my life, my family, and my friends. I was almost burned alive. I was bound to a Hellhorse. I rode half-conscious for Vkandis knows how long, then fell at your feet. I woke up looking straight at a Demonrider. I have fodder aplenty for nightmares." Neave thought he saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "Jarin's face I keep seeing..."

"Who's Jarin?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"He is—he was my partner and my lover, before...just before."

"Daeor didn't mention him."

"And wish I do that I had not." This time it was Ralca who looked away. "Distract me, your teaching does, from all the pain, and for that I am grateful. What I saw, even Daeor cannot erase the pain of."

Neave knew better than to ask what had happened. At least, not now. Maybe in a few days, or weeks, Ralca could say it, but not yet. He nodded. "Even Companions have their limits, as much as they would like us to believe otherwise."

:Thanks ever so,: Kyldathar muttered dryly.

:Hush, please,: Neave replied. :I can't have two conversations at once.: "Good night, then. I'll try not to give you anymore nightmares."

She gave a tearful smile. "My thanks you have."

By the end of the next day, Ralca could shield well enough to satisfy Neave's demands. The day after that, she learned Truth Spell. On her fourth day awake, Neave showed her how to link and began teaching her the many uses even her minor Gift could have, as well as the capabilities of other Gifts. "Why do you teach me all this?" she asked once.

"It'll give you a head start at the Collegium," he replied. "And it'll be at least three days before you'll be well enough for us to ride."

"I rode here," she protested.

"And look at the state you were in when you arrived," Neave was quick to point out. "We'll leave in three days."

Ralca shrugged and continued practicing.

The next morning when Neave woke up, his sword was missing. His first thought was that Skif had taken it, as  joke, and his second was remembering that he wasn't in the Collegium, and Skif was away with Princess Elspeth. But what Ralca was doing with his sword, he didn't know.

He dressed hurriedly and went to find her. He didn't have to look for long. She was outside practicing, weaving the sword in complex patterns. The blade flickered in the early morning light as she ducked under and imaginary opponent's stroke and drove her sword home. Continuing her spin, she back-kicked and gave a turned-about lunge.

The moment was broken as she dropped her sword. Breathing hard and clutching her wounded side, stretched by strenuous movement, Ralca fell to her knees. She felt hands on her shoulders and opened her tightly shut eyes, looking up into Neave's concerned face.

"Are you alright?" he asked anxiously.

"Fine," she managed.

"You're sure?"

Ralca nodded and stood slowly. Halfway up, she collapsed against Neave, gasping in pain. "No," she choked. "Reopened the wound, I have. Badly."

"Come inside," Neave ordered her. He helped her back into the Waystation, scolding her all the way. "You should know better than to try sword-dancing when you've got as many unhealed wounds as you do! What possessed you to do that?"

She smiled wryly. "Out of practice I did not want to get, Mother," she teased. "Alright, I am, Neave. Really."

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I just thought you'd really hurt yourself."

"Hurt it does, but alright I will be." She sat down and lifted the hem of her shirt, watching blood soak through her bandage. She sighed. "A longer wait I have made to heal. Ah, well. Today you teach me shielding?"

"Yes, after breakfast."

_Not the greatest ending, I know, but I'm lucky to have gotten this far. Keep reviewing and I'll keep writing._


End file.
